


Bruises and White-Hot Waves

by IAmWhelmed



Category: Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bottom Damian Wayne, Light BDSM, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay, Porn with Feelings, Shower Sex, Top Jonathan Samuel Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: Damian and Jon have obliviously been pining after each other for years, too unsure the other feels the same way to take a leap. Tension comes to a head when a mission leaves them both soaked in sewer water, and there’s only one shower. Jon doesn’t think it’s going to be a problem, Damian isn’t convinced.Damian is right.
Relationships: Jonathan Samuel Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 90





	Bruises and White-Hot Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mar_69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mar_69/gifts).



> This is for you, Mar_69! I’m your Valentine this year, and I’m so, so happy I was able to repay you for supporting me all this time by writing something you (hopefully) will love! I admit, this time around was a little challenging, but it was worth it to give you a proper Valentine. Hope that, even if you’re spending it alone, you know I’m raising my wine glass and tipping it your way!

Pining for his best friend is simultaneous great, jittering joy, and the pain of waiting at the DMV for four hours. It’s his heart leaping in his chest when Jon sets a hand on his shoulder, the prevailing hope (despite let-down after let-down after disappointment) that he’d find his fingers trembling or his touch lingering. It is wrestling with him atop his twin-sized bed and twisting the sheets between their tangled limbs, with Jon’s thigh brushing against him so sternly that he must bite his lips to stifle the wailing beast in him that fights to voice its wantoness to ears that likely do not want to listen. It is trembling after battle with sore limbs, cuts that stung like welts and the fire of a wasp’s wrath, stumbling into Jon’s chest and hearing his heart beat in tune like a drum in a plumb symphony with his own.

It is also watching the stars shine like the moon’s own likeness against crashing waves on shore, catching Jon’s eyes in the light and feeling at once almost ruined, hopeless. Because stars love Venus and Neptune as dearly as they love Terra, and though it is different and wondrous and  _ delightfully peculiar  _ to find comfort in that, it is also disparaging. For he is not special, not to him. It is feeling Jon’s arms wrap around him, hearing him laugh in his ear while he squirms to get away (with no real intent--  _ never real intent _ ), and wishing desperately that Jon would press a kiss to the vein of his neck and whisper to him of veneration and of long-veiled ardor, to which Jon and Jon alone had been privy to. And these are ludicrous wishes; they are thoughts that do not float and visit sparingly, but stay hanging with him in his own noose, right at his heart.

All such pretty words to say that Jon’s choice to parade around their fortress half-naked made him foam at the mouth.

Not that he wasn’t half-naked, too, because he was. Their latest mission, which had ended about as neatly as their escapades during the winter break weeks could have been, ended no sooner than four in the morning, and the completion of the aforementioned mission involved both stringing wannabe-villain of the week up a pole for the Metropolis PD in the snow and dripping head-to-toe in  _ sewer water _ of all things. Sewer water that was somehow colder than  _ normal  _ water was against kevlar and cotton.

They’d both stripped themselves of their armor and sweatshirts and jeans as soon as they’d gotten in the door, and that translated to Jon very pointedly trying to pull him into the shower with him. In their underwear. Boxers. They were men, now, after all, (and god help him, he was trying to forget it every time he saw Jon’s chest flex). “D, c’mon, can you not be a rich kid for once and just  _ share a shower with me _ ?” Because that was the excuse Jon had given him, had assumed, and it both excused him from sheer, wanting-aching lust, and fit with the image he’d decided to uphold for himself. So Jon could believe that was why he was putting up a fight. It wasn’t at all because he’d want to put his hands all over him, bite at his taut skin and taste him on his tongue.

He scoffed. “That is  _ disgusting-- _ ”

“It’s the equivalent of a locker room!”

“And when have I ever participated in something so  _ primitive _ ?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “You mean  _ normal _ ?  _ Domestic _ ?” Things Jon loved, yes, the simplicity of American living. “It’s the same as standing at the other end of a  _ garden hose _ \--!”

“ _ NAKED? _ ” If his voice pitched, if the skin at the back of his neck burned, he hoped Jon didn’t notice.

If Jon did, he probably wouldn’t have snorted or grinned like he was trying to bite back laughter. “We’re in our underwear, Damian, it’s not like we’re--”

_ Lovers, lovers who would touch each other in there. Who would bite and kiss and moan and explore each other’s bodies. Jon would not grab him by the thighs, hoist him against the shower wall and--  _ “--It’s still disgusting, Jonathan! And inefficient at that! The showerhead couldn’t possibly get both of us at the same time. It would take us twice as long to rid ourselves of muck and grime and…  _ sewer water _ .” How flimsy, his excuses were sounding so flimsy. But what else could he do? Run away? Not bloody likely.

Jon scoffed, again, nodding to the room that was quickly gathering steam. “D, c’mon. We’re wasting hot water.”

“ _ You’re  _ wasting hot water, and as the person taking sloppy seconds, I’d appreciate you getting on with it!” Damian twisted around, arms crossed, nose in air, because usually that ended the conversation. Usually, that was where Jon would fold, or at least momentarily acquiesce. Throw his arms in the air and tell him he was so freaking hard to talk to.

He wasn’t expecting a pair of hot, sticky arms to wrap themselves around his waist, or for one hand to lodge itself firmly against his ass as Jon lifted him from the floor. He yelped, shamefully, and sucked in when Jon twisted him in his hands and threw him hard over his shoulder. “J- _ Jonathan! _ ”

Jon’s response was little more than a snicker, one he was increasingly convinced was accompanied by another eyeroll. That was his line, he wanted to say, but he kept quiet for fear his voice would yet again hitch at the hand Jon had settled right above the curve of his ass.

The water was already hot, steaming but not boiling when Jon stepped under the stream. The sudden temperature spike likely would have been harsher against his skin if his blood hadn’t already been festering. His skin bristled, and Jon laughed. “Well, you’re all wet now, may as well just stick around, right?”

“ _ Geghh-- _ put me down!”

And Jon did just that, let his body slide down inch by inch against his own until they were chest-to-chest, inch by wet, taut inch. His arms still found themselves around Jon’s neck, a natural response to the sensation of falling, stabling himself so he wouldn’t hit the ground too hard (though he knew, he knew Jon would never hurt him like that). He glared up at Jon’s humor-light-face, eyes glinting with mischief, and tried not to think about his hands hands were still at his hips, that their bodies were flush together, that the only thing separating him from feeling Jon in full was the underwear they still wore, boxers that grew more wet and sopping with each moment they spent near the running showerhead. He tried not to concentrate on it, that he could feel  _ Jon _ and that Jon could probably feel  _ him _ . It was everything in his power not to lose himself, to press even closer than flush. “I’ll get you back for this,  _ Superboy _ .”

“Oh, I’m sure you will!” And Jon pressed against him, forced him to back up with every step he took forward, until they were both right under the faucet. “But when you do, you’ll be manure-free.”

And he huffed, because he knew Jon was right. He shouldn’t have let his body’s inane desires get in the way of what was only the simplest solution. He was the son of the Bat, for god’s sake, he’d been trained to ignore his body’s whining for the mission from far harsher, more extenuating circumstances. Taking a short rinse with his best friend shouldn’t have been anything that would break his will.

But damn if it wasn’t hard, feeling Jon’s wet skin on his own, his priviest place against his own, brushing there as Jon’s fingers tapped along his skin. For a moment, Damian paused; what were Jon’s hands doing? Some fingers were pressed to the bone of his hip, but others… others were skirting the band of his boxers, pinkies sweeping under, then slightly lower, the ring following, small circles into his skin as they wandered. His breath hitched, but he hid it under a grumble. Damian looked up at Jon, who seemed to look a little lost, not in the usual way, the way where his eyes were staring far beyond him. The usual kind, Damian could never tell what he was looking at, and it made him seem so far away.  _ It is also watching the stars shine like the moon’s own likeness against crashing waves on shore… _

But Jon was looking right at him, and instead of far away, he felt very, very present, like there was something to be lost in  _ him _ , and those blue, blue eyes were clouded with so much more than the steam. His lips were parted, like he was pondering words, meaningful ones, and his eyes seemed focused on  _ him,  _ his own eyes, his nose, his lips. He paid more attention to Jon’s fingers, to the way they explored the edge of areas Jon had never touched, how Jon seemed almost unaware that his fingers were cautiously inching his waistband down, and down, only a centimeter each time. He wanted them to, wanted to see what Jon would do if he let him continue, if he’d keep pushing his boxers down until he was truly bare. The thought made him press against Jon’s fingers, and they rewarded him with a particularly deep circle at the very top curve of his ass. True to character, as hard as it was, he brought himself back to reality. “You can let go, now.” That came out every bit as deadpan and scathing as he’d meant it to. Good job, himself.

Jon blinked, as though he’d snapped him awake, like he hadn’t been as  _ there _ as Damian had thought he was. His cheeks turned a lovely carmine, and Damian wasn’t sure if that was the situation, or the heat of the shower. Jon’s hands squeezed and turned him around in the next second. “Oh really? You’re not going to just, I dunno, take off?”

“You said it yourself, Kent, I’m already wet. May as well conserve the water.”

And so he did. Jon’s hands left his hips to pay attention to his own skin, to places that still smelled of seaweed and waste. Damian followed suit, wiping at his arms, his legs, his chest, anywhere that had felt particularly heavy under the kevlar with waste. It wasn’t near enough to rid of the smell, but the sensation was washed away with every drop of hot water. Jon reached upward, where a basket hung from the showerhead, and poured a grateful helping of body wash into his hand. He started at his arms, then moved to his torso, then his legs (he looked away at that, because though he could allow himself with his stealth to watch with greedy eyes as Jon washed his abs and pecs and  _ dammit _ … his head very blatantly following Jon’s wandering hands down to his muscled thighs was going to be obvious, even for him). It wasn’t long before Jon was attempting to reach around his back, awkwardly angling his arms over his shoulders to get to skin he typically wouldn’t wash.

Damian clicked his tongue. “Turn around, you idiot. I’ll do it.”

Jon shot him a shy, gangly smile that spoke of more embarrassment than he was sure the guy had seen in years. “A-Are you sure? I-I mean, I can just--”

“Turn around, Kent.” He squirted soap into his open palm.

Jon complied, and in the next moment, he was regretting Jon’s choice to comply.

His skin was soft, so incredibly soft and devoid of scars, and his muscles seemed to flex subconsciously under every move he made. It was truly maddening, to have Jon’s bare skin under his fingers, against his hot palms, and still feel unable to touch him. He moved his hands in strokes, up and down, thumbs joining in the center to rub circles along Jon’s spine. Occasionally, his fingers would stretch and inch closer to his chest, splaying over his sides, rubbing, massaging. Jon’s body moved under every stroke, bending, flexing, pressing back against his palms. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was how Jon would move under him, if he’d run his hands over his chest and-- he grimaced at himself. Right then was not the time, as offending to his patience as Jon’s reactions were.

Jon hummed under his touch, low, warm, relaxed. “Massage therapy part of the strict Batman Training Regimen?”

“Tt. Pennyworth often gives Father massages after a particularly bad patrol. I’ve simply observed.”

Jon chuckled, and it reverberated through his hands and subsequently went straight to his heart. Jon’s laughter was always, always the sweetest sound to his ears. Instinct told him to press his head to his shoulder, to smile and press a kiss to the skin there, bury his head in his neck, but he held back. They were close, not that close. Not as close as he wanted to be. “Something amuse you, Kent?”

“Just you. Acting all tough.”

“I am tough.”

“Sure,” Jon turned around, and he retracted his hands. “Until you aren’t.” He reached out, grasped the body wash and hit it against his palm until more mint blue soap poured like icing onto his waiting hand. He nodded, then, at him. “Turn around.”

Damian blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah! You washed my back, I’ll wash yours!”

“I believe the traditional phrase is  _ scratch my back _ .”

“Scratch, wash, whatever, stop being a jerk and turn around.” And he did, not because Jon commanded it, but because it would have been weirder to say no. It would be easier to hide Jon’s effect on him if he weren’t facing him, anyway. He needn't worry as much about the physical aspects of his useless little infatuation. He just needed to perfectly stifle his moans, his hums, hide his smile. Jon could hear him if he worked any less than optimally.

And then Jon’s hands rested flat against his back, and he melted. His hands were as warm as he was, engulfing, a deep caring grace that swallowed him whole. Jon’s thumbs ran circles into his shoulders and he allowed himself a small hum. Jon’s hands worked at his shoulders blades, circles growing deeper and deeper as he worked muscles into a pudding. “Yeesh, doesn’t Alfred ever give  _ you _ massages?”

“I--” he bit back a grunt as Jon’s stern thumb bunched against a tendon, “I have no need for such things. It is best that I am always prepared.”

Jon snorted. “Uh huh. So massages are bad because they…?”

“Lower your guard.”

That said, of course he’d let Jon give him one. Even if his guard was down, even if Jon worked his muscles into such submission that it made him putty on the shower floor… he was safe with Jon. That much he knew. He’d grown from that little boy he’d always have to swoop in and save (even if he’d kept the big eyes and optimism and  _ kit hands _ ). Jon was  _ his  _ Superman. Always had been, always would be, regardless that their titles still marked them as sidekicks, as sons and not men. Jon was certainly a man.

Jon’s hands pressed down on him, rougher than before, and he tilted his chin back and swallowed the gasp. Jon’s hands stilled, and for a moment he worried he’d heard him. That would have been degrading, but not irretrievably so. His father had let out a number of odd sounds the last time, and a great many before it, Pennyworth had massaged his back. There was no way Jon could differentiate between the moan of a man being massaged and the moan of a tortured, lusting love. Not at all. Jon’s hands began to move again.

This time they lowered, right to the small of his back. Jon used one hand to pull him closer, readjust him, and he allowed it with minimal complaint. Until, of course, he realized Jon’s.... was pressed against him, again, this time from behind, right at the curve of his-- he shook his head.

Jon’s hands continued, tips of his fingers pressing, dipping, circling at the core of his lower back. Down and up, and down, then up against his spine, and it made his back arch, ass pressing back against Jon’s-- he shivered. “D…” Jon’s voice seemed lower than usual, with an odd twinge to it, like he was thirsty. He shut his eyes and hummed. “Can you…” and Jon brushed against him.

He gasped.

He had to be sure, to know, because if he wasn’t actually  _ crazy _ , then--!

He leaned back, and Jon brushed against him again, and he bit down on his lip. “ _ Jon _ …”

“ _ Damian… _ ” Jon’s hands moved instead to grip his hips again, this time to bring them back in rhythm with his own. Once, twice, again, and again. Purposely, experimentally, they moved together. Damian leaned forward, pressed his hands against the tile wall. Jon inhaled, sharply. Wave after wave, Jon growing harder, and harder, and he could feel it against himself, and his boxers were little more than paper against Jon. His breathing was getting shallow, more and more by the minute. “That feels… so good.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, it does…”

“D, I…” Jon moaned, and it was small, and guttural, and it still lit his stomach in small, blue-light flames. “I wanna…”

Whatever it was, whatever it possibly could have been, he wanted to give it to him. For Jon, anything. Always.

Jon’s hands gripped him tighter, and he groaned as his fingers left bruises, bruises he could feel under his skin, deep. Blue and black, and it felt good, so good, Jon rutting against him, marking him up like a bedpost. “ _ Ahhh… Jooon…” _

“ _ Damian….  _ **_Damian_ ** …” Jon’s fingers gripped at his boxers, tore them down until they sat just below his ass, then grabbed him on either side and placed himself between either side. He stiffened, and Jon moaned, low, longer, more. “ _ I want...mmm…” _

_ “Jon… _ ” Something was building in him, building, building, like a storm growing in his stomach and getting hotter, hotter, devouring more by the moment. And it felt good,  _ so good _ , and Jon wasn’t stopping. He wanted more, faster, harder, more Jon, more him, against him, he wanted Jon  _ inside of him _ . “ _ Jon… _ ”

Jon gripped him tighter, squeezed, and he moaned. “ _ Jon! _ ” That feeling grew, and grew, and grew until--

… until Jon stopped.

His hands loosened up, and the delicious, delicious friction spreading him open pulled away. The feeling didn’t die, but the sea grew quiet. He breathed, in and out, brows furrowing. What had happened? Why had Jon stopped all of the sudden? Then it started to occur to him-- that he and Jon had rutted against each other like animals, that Jon had stripped him of his underwear, that he was leaned against the shower wall like a whore. His face burned, and burned well and hot. He turned his head over his shoulder, made to say something, anything that would fix the situation. They could act like it never happened--!

Jon grabbed him by the hips, again, twisted him around and threw him back against the wall. His back hit the tile with an audible slap, and he gasped, but Jon’s mouth was on his too soon. His hands were everywhere, all over his chest, nails running down his sides, deep enough to leave lines of angry red in his skin. He moaned and Jon swallowed it whole, one hand reaching down to grab him by the thigh, lift it until it sat limp at Jon’s hip. Jon’s manhood, which he was suddenly acutely aware had been released from the Superman boxers he’d been wearing, now brushed freely against his own. He moaned again, lifted his hips to meet the small thrust Jon had begun the rhythm of. He reached up, unsure what to do with his hands, let them fall over Jon’s chest, touch him like he’d always wanted to, and he felt him flex (quite ostensibly on purpose) as his hands padded over his nipples, over his silky smooth skin, his abs--  _ god _ , his  _ abs _ . Their lips parted for a moment, and he bit at Jon’s lip. “Awfully brave today, aren’t we, Superboy?”

Jon’s eyes glinted with irritation. “How can you still act all smug when  _ I’m  _ the one pinning  _ you _ to the wall?”

He barked. “Hah! You’re not  _ pinning me _ \--!”

Jon took that as a challenge. Suddenly, his wrists hit the tile over his head with bruising speed, and he grunted as Jon’s hand--  _ he used only one to pin both _ \-- squeezed them hard enough to bruise. Jon kissed him, hard, bit his lip right back and mumbled against his panting mouth: “If we’re doing this, I’m in charge, got it?”

Despite himself, he moaned, “ _ Yes… _ ”

And so Jon worked him, rolled their hips in a beat that followed his heart, kissed him and swallowed every moan his traitorous body made. He whined as Jon’s manhood brushed his own firmly, like he meant to, like every thrust before it was teasing him. His voice was high-pitched, even to his own ears. “ _ Jon… _ ”

And he responded in kind. “ _ Damian… _ ”

He thrusted again, roughly, and he whined. “ _ Jon! Jon just-- _ ” The grip around his wrists tightened, and he hissed.  _ Be polite _ . Message received. “ _ Jon, please… _ ”

“What do you want, D?” And Jon’s lips were at his chest, pressing kisses to his scars, lips trailing over his nipple, moist and warm. It made him buck. “Tell me. Tell me what you want.” And he took that nipple in his mouth, tongue lapping at it as he squirmed under Jon’s stern hands.

_ “Jooon! _ ”

“D, I need to hear you say it. Tell me you want me.” He bit down on him, hard, and he yelped and twisted and kreened because it just felt so good, and Jon was making love to him, and more, he wanted  _ more, more, more _ . “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”

“ _ I want you… _ ” And he might have, in his right mind, felt ashamed to sound so wanton, but not right then. Not when the love of his life had him pinned to a shower wall, not when he’d confessed to wanting him just as badly. Maybe, just maybe, the stars had found true, honest love with Terra after all. “ _ Jon, I want you. I always have, please, please just… _ ” Jon sucked at his nipple, and his back arched. “Jon, please,  _ take me _ .”

And Jon listened. His free hand lifted from his thigh, hooked the sopping material of his boxers around his thumb, and tore them off with a flick of his wrist.

He flipped him back around, and Damian braced himself against the wall. Jon grabbed him by the ass, pulled him apart and pressed inside of him, just a little, just enough that it hurt. And, to his surprise, he kind of liked that. He swallowed, hard. “ _ Jooon _ …”

“ _ Damian, you feel so good, _ ” Jon pushed in further, and he lifted his hips, pushed back so he could take more. Jon filled him, and it made his eyes swell. He moaned, long, and low, and Jon started moving. In and out, warm, warm hands grabbing at his hips, squeezing, leaving marks of his attentions in blues and blacks, the shape of fingerprints on his skin.

“ _ Jon, ah-- please--” _

Jon didn’t need him to finish the thought. Already, he responded, and he hit him harder, took his hips and forced them back at the same time that he thrusted forward, and that wrecked him.

“ _ AH! Jon! Yes, _ ” He thrusted again, and Damian moaned. “ _ R-Right there! Jon! _ ”

“Yeah? Like that?” The tile was leaving imprints on his hands, and his palms were starting to hurt from the sheer force Jon was using, but it was so good, and he could hear the tile cracking under the pressure but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He devolved into a streaming line of “ _ yes, yes, yes _ ”, and Jon moved to press his hand against the back of his own. Warm, soft fingers tangled through Damian’s own. They kept moving, thrusts devolving into animalistic urges to be closer to each other, to become one. Jon laid his head against his back, where his shoulder was, and pressed a kiss to the skin. His other hand, the one not lacing their fingers together, reached around to his chest, nails running down his stomach, scratching and marking until he reached his manhood, where he graced the tip with his thumb.

The storm was building, again, rising higher than it had before in his stomach, twisting and consuming him as he chased it with blind, grasping hands. “ _ Jon! Jon, please, please…” _

“ _ Just like that, just like that, D, oh god. _ ”

His voice started to get higher, his moans louder with every thrust, until, like a harlot, he was whining and crying with every single thrust. Jon, spurred on by that, grew faster, borrowed a portion of his super speed to wreck him, and it  _ worked.  _ Tears welled in his eyes, started pouring over his cheeks, his cries became wanton screams as Jon fucked him into the wall, so hard and fast that his legs were turning to jelly. And the sea was growing, waves higher than his body crashing onto shore, and he was coming all over the shower floor. Jon wasn’t far behind him, filled him up like a bag of icing and it spilled from him when he pulled out.

He was going to take a moment, to catch his breath before he straightened himself out, but Jon grabbed him. He pulled him back into his warm arms and kissed his shoulder and whispered sweet, sweet nothings of the adoration he’d long-since accepted belonged only to himself. Remise was he to say he’d been wrong about that.


End file.
